It Raynes In New York
by T.D Rayne
Summary: A series of short-works, theme-less and far too small to stand on their own. The universe will likely vary (mostly between 2k3 and 2k12) from piece to piece. Prompt 3: "Beautiful it may have been, but he'd much prefer that it were sunlight falling through the bars instead."
1. It Rained

Rain came to his home, and far too late.

Black ash, once stiff, crisp and fragile, now pooled in runny black puddles of unidentifiable muck and ran in rivers around his battered shoes. His skin, once clean and white, was tainted with trails of black made by the water falling from the sky. It made oddly refined marks about his face - beneath and around his eyes, down his cheeks, upon his upper lip and on each side of his nose - but more drops would ruin it, and he'd surely turn black as the hair upon his own head by the storm's end.

He stood among the piles of tarnished debris, cursing the rain, for it was late.

There were men dressed in uniform now, and they asked many questions. Searched the area. Gave condolences. And asked more questions.

He lied to each and every one, and he cursed them, for they were late.

He himself walked about the house - between walls that no longer existed and around furniture that was not there. Called for people who would never come and heard voices that he'd never hear again. Searched rooms that were no more than ash and laid down upon a bed that had long been washed away in the winds and waters of the storm.

Why had it come now, when the fires were already gone? Why now, when it was so late?

Rain came to his home, and washed away every last piece of ash, whether it had been trash or treasure, wood or bone. Rain came to his home, and washed everything into an existence he could not share.

He cursed it, for it was late.

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_Greetings, fellow readers and writers,_

_At last, a suitable start to a drabble series! This one is set in 2k12 - I'd originally intended to post another drabble first but, considering my series title, I thought that my first drabble should have something to do with rain. I haven't the faintest idea why. _

_No turtles yet, but they're on their way - I promise! 2k12 Splinter just begs for mountains of fan-fiction!  
_

_I hope you enjoyed it; if you have the time or desire, I'd very much appreciate any kind of feedback as well! _

_Write on,_

_ - T.D Rayne_


	2. Bunkmates

Leonardo could handle Raphael snoring like a thousand revving chainsaws in a busy lumber mill. Truth be told, it was only unbearably grating for the first hour or so; once passed, it was no more than another(albeit irritating) instrument in the every-day symphony of water running through pipes, metal clattering, and generators humming in the walls around their home.

Then Michelangelo started talking in his sleep. Not loudly, for his voice could only barely be heard over Raphael; the "noise" aspect, in fact, bothered him far, far less than the surprisingly distracting nature of what he was saying. Who was Derkeethus, and how in the world did he end up in the shadow of a falling mammoth (which, apparently, could fly)? What was a gobbo, and why was a giant boxing ladybug kidnapping Raphael?

_Then_ he received a harsh blow to his gut. Then to his shin. Then a particularly rough one strong enough to send pain signals radiating through his plastron to what felt like every internal organ behind it. The next one shoved him into Raphael, who growled in his sleep, turned over and bit down on the top crook of his shell. Eyes watering and teeth gritted in pain, he looked over to glare at the dark shape sprawled out on his right. This was Donatello, no doubt, who was quite possibly the worst bunk-mate in history, prone to squirming and jerking and tossing about in his sleep and bruising anyone in the vicinity in the worst possible places.

Another good bop in the beak had him up and out from under the blanket. He would endure this torture no longer; he was going to sleep on the sofa. Falling off of it and cracking his skull was far better than battered ear drums, bruised shins and mental epileptic seizures.

Now, the motion was careful and silent, but it was enough for Michelangelo to snap awake on instinct. With bleary eyes he watched his weary brother track out like a child repressing a tantrum while muttering under his breath about sleeping with fitful rhinoceroses.

And he was relieved; their pillows wouldn't be swamps of saliva by morning after all.


	3. Frost

"Early January."

These were words, Splinter had begun to realize, that humans used to describe an amount of "time".

This kind of "time" was usually very cold; another wisdom from listening to the words of men, whose voices so often carried through the open grating that dotted the ceilings of the storm drains from above. Even in his own nest - a shallow hole in the tunnel wall lined with tattered blankets, paper and straw - a chill had found its way in, mercilessly stinging away at the flesh of both himself and his surrogate young. To make matters all the worse, he was the only one among his new - and very small - colony that had the advantage of being protected by a layer of fur.

Tiny, weak from hunger and hairless, Splinter understood that they would surely die if he left them without heat for too long; he very much doubted that the strange, hardened skin that covered their bodies did much to protect them from the elements. And so, although his own body ached and shook, he remained curled tightly around them, regularly covering them in straw and strips of newsprint in hopes that it might insulate them for as long as their need for sustenance would permit.

In a "time" he understood to be far behind him, he would have left so long ago. He would have gone to find others - others like him - and they would have been kind. He would have gone to them, and they would have given him the warmth of their own bodies. Perhaps the fruits of their surface labor.

But these others now fled at the sight of him.

He understood that he was not like them anymore.

And now he had come to better know these strange grass-colored creatures; he had grown accustomed to waking and seeing their alien faces. And as he had grown to know them, he found that the the thought of leaving was repulsive, the idea of their lonesome frightening him beyond anything he had ever known; the ever growing pains of his own stomach lay as a mere annoyance within the back of his mind to make room for the eeriness of their stillness.

Stillness. Why were they so _still_? And it was so _persistent_, even if he nudged them with his nose, grazed their skin with his teeth or licked their frozen heads raw. He would tend to them relentlessly, and yet the most they would do was squirm weakly and hide their faces in his side.

He understood they needed the sun.

The sun still failed to meet them.

_'This 'January' is a cruel thing,'_ he would think. _'This 'time' is a cruel thing.'_

Now his eyes were sore and heavy, and yet remained open as if kept so by the thinnest of threads; sleep and it's blessing of relief, it seemed, was insistently refusing to claim him even as he silently begged for it. So, as time passed with it's usual thoughtlessness, his weary gaze remained fixed on either the tiny creatures that slept nestled into his fur or the grating just outside his nest.

Today, it yielded strange flakes of white that slowly and soundlessly drifted down into a sparkling pile on the ground. In the light, he found that it would gleam and sparkle like the night sky, and it's surreality had sparked his curiosity enough for him to emerge only for a moment and touch...

...only for his wonder to vanish like wind-swept smoke as he discovered that it was colder than the unattended skin of his little ones. He left it curtly, tail thrashing irritably and limbs shuddering as he curled around his colony once more, bitter and crestfallen.

Beautiful it may have been, but he'd much prefer that it were sunlight falling through the bars instead.


End file.
